


Sleepless Red Eyes

by seeing-ghosts (saltedshotgun)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedshotgun/pseuds/seeing-ghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel comes back with the groceries. Coda to 8x22 Clip Show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Red Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem **The Cradle** by Lucian Blaga that starts with the words, "I was so tired and in so much pain. I think I suffered of too much soul." Don't tell me it's not fitting. Spoilers for **8x22 Clip Show** , obviously. Fic is unbeta'd, english is not my first language, constructive criticism is always welcome.

Castiel finds Dean in the kitchen, leaning against the counter; it's dimly lit, as if Dean didn't bother turning the lights on completely. He's not doing anything, just standing there, and his head is hung low, shadows covering his eyes. 

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says and takes a step forward, putting the plastic bag with groceries on the table. Dean lifts his head and squints up at Castiel, and even in the half-light, Castiel can see how bloodshot Dean's eyes are. "Are you alright?" he asks. 

Dean looks drunk, gaze heavy as he glares at Castiel; the same way it used to be years ago when the Apocalypse was nigh, and then when Sam was gone. 

Dean drops his head again, breathing deeply. "No," he croaks. "Where were you?"

"I went shopping," Castiel replies and tugs at the plastic bag a little. 

Dean's head snaps back up again and he scowls, brow creasing. "For a whole day?" he says and Castiel drops his eyes to the ground. They are silent for a while and then Dean says, voice low and even, "You still don't get it, do you?" 

"I don't get what?" 

Dean shakes his head and pushes himself off from the counter, walks over to the table like an old man, like taking each step is a battle. "You know what, I'm too tired for this. I can't - I just don't have the energy." And he sinks on the chair heavily, rests his hands against his knees as they shake. 

Castiel hovers for a few seconds, uncertain, because the last time he saw Dean, only hours ago, Dean was vivid with his anger, the rage of a hurricane in a human's skin, almost terrifying even to Castiel. Now he's shrunken, shoulders slumped as if the fury's all gone, leaving behind an empty place ready to collapse in on itself. 

Castiel sits down on the chair opposite of Dean and says, "What happened?" 

Dean stares at the table top. "It's Crowley," he says and Castiel's stomach sinks. "He, uh... He's killing the people we've saved. He sent us a location and we've - we went there and he killed - " Dean stops and swallows, waves his hand. "Right before our eyes. We were just there and we couldn't do anything." 

The story, as Dean tells it, is incomplete, but Castiel understands enough, knows enough, to imagine the dread Dean must have felt. Must feel still. 

He wants to say, _I'm sorry I wasn't there to help,_ or, _I'm sorry I didn't kill Crowley when I could have._ He wants to say, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ He's starting to understand, though, why a sorry won't cut it anymore, and so he says the only thing he can say. "You can't save everyone, Dean. It's not in your power." 

Dean snaps, without hesitation, "I can't save _anyone_!" He stands up and starts pacing the room, just as tired and slumped as before despite the rapid, heavy breathing, the fire in his words. "I can't save Sam from these trials, no matter what I do, it's not enough. I couldn't save - I couldn't save Benny. I couldn't save _you_ \- " His eyes flicker to Castiel, " - not in Purgatory, not _ever_. We couldn't save Tommy, couldn't save _Sarah_ \- " 

His voice breaks over the last name and he stops and wavers, and for a second Castiel expects him to fall to floor, too stricken to do anything but stare. 

"She was - she and Sam, they had a thing," Dean says, looking at Castiel now. "Back then, when we - when we _saved_ her. They had - she was really good. She could have been good for him." He pauses for a second, jaw working. "He's not taking it well." 

Neither is Dean, but Castiel doesn't point that out. Instead he stands, slowly, carefully, as if he's afraid he's going to spook Dean like a wild animal and make him run. "I'm sorry," he says, because it's true, and it needs saying. He lifts his hand, holds out his palm, at Dean's poisonous, poisonous look. "I know it - I know you don't believe me, but I am. I'm sorry that you carry this burden, when you shouldn't have to. I'm sorry that I don't - " he struggles for words, " - that I don't know how to do right by you. I wish I could help you, Dean, but I don't know how." 

Dean stands, lips parted slightly and eyes wide; he looks like he's in pain, Castiel realizes, like he's hurting _so much_. He takes a deep breath a looks torn for a second, a little at war with himself, and then he croaks out, "Don't leave." Castiel's face must show the confusion he's feeling, because Dean licks his lips and shuffles in place, awkward in his own skin. "Stop running from us, from me, all the time. You know, the lies and the - the mistrust, it sucks but I can deal with that, alright? That could - we could - " Dean trails off and he's watching Cas, silently begging him for help. "But the constant running god knows where, not letting us know - I thought you were dead, Cas. For weeks. I thought that you were _dead_." 

Being sorry won't cut it. Castiel knows hundreds of languages, dead and alive, and he can't find anything that will. "I never realized - " he says and Dean shakes his head. 

"Of course you didn't. I'm an idiot for thinking you would." He averts his eyes, turns around. "I'm going to bed. I'm tired." 

"Dean, wait." Castiel takes the two steps separating them, catching up with Dean, and grabs him by the shoulder, spins him back. They're facing each other now, only inches from each other, and Castiel says, desperate, "Let me help you. I will do _anything_. I know I don't - don't deserve your trust, or your forgiveness, but please. Tell me what you need." 

"I think I need you to need me," Dean replies, his voice hoarse and dull. "And if you don't, I don't - I don't know how to deal with that." He chokes out, "God," almost as an afterthought, berating himself for letting his control slip.

Castiel considers asking for permission, but they're so close already, and it's so easy; he wraps his arms around Dean, recalling the way Dean did this back in Purgatory - remembering that he, in his utter shock, didn't return the sentiment. He's been so stupid. "Of course I need you," he says. "I never thought that was in question." 

They way he's holding on is probably awkward, and Dean squirms against him, his chest heaving against Castiel's, but now that Castiel has him, he can't let go. He rests his chin on Dean's shoulder and closes his eyes for a second, feels Dean do the same and claw at his back as much as Castiel's arms around his allow. 

"Don't think this changes anything," Dean chokes out, voice tight. "Don't think this - I'm still fucking pissed at you. This doesn't - " 

Castiel says, "I know, Dean."


End file.
